


Comfort Food

by Seascribe



Category: due South
Genre: Fluff, Food, Gen, Hockey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/pseuds/Seascribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's got two tickets to the Blackhawks game. Unfortunately, he also has the flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Food

**Author's Note:**

  * For [altri_uccelli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altri_uccelli/gifts).



> Written for Altri_Uccelli's prompt: Fraser, RayK, hockey, Santa hat. Thanks to Ninja_Orange for making sure I didn't make any major hockey mistakes.

God hates Stanley Raymond Kowalski. That's the only explanation. Ray'd got tickets to a game, Blackhawks versus the Oilers, great seats: centre ice, ten rows up, just like the first Hawks game his dad ever took him to. Fraser was going to love it, and Ray figured afterwards they could go for dinner, steaks, maybe, something a little nicer than pizza. Maybe Fraser'd come over afterwards, and they might--Fraser might--well, Ray hasn't really thought that part through yet.

Only on game day, Ray rolls out of bed and starts puking his guts up, can barely drag his head out of the toilet long enough to call Fraser and tell him he's going to have to find someone else to go to the game with him. 

"Bet Turnbull would have a blast," Ray croaks, wiping his mouth. "I mean, not as good as curling, but--"

"Ray, I couldn't possibly," Fraser says, when Ray's stopped gagging. "There would be no enjoyment at all in going to the game, knowing that all the while you were suffering at home. Perhaps I should come over. Your condition should be monitored, in case you need medical attention." 

"It's just the flu, Fraser," Ray says. "Those tickets were supposed to be your Christmas gift! Go watch the game! Definitely do not come over here, last thing you want is to catch this bug." 

"I'll be over just as soon as my shift ends," Fraser says firmly, and hangs up the phone. Ray groans and slumps down onto the cold tile.

He's still there when Fraser knocks at the door and then lets himself in without waiting for an answer. There's the rustle of him taking off his coat, something thumping down onto the table, and the _click-click-click_ of Dief's nails on the hardwood.

"Hey, Dief," Ray says, flopping an arm over his face to keep Dief from licking him. Dief whines and noses at his ear. 

"Diefenbaker's right, Ray," Fraser says. Ray feels the floor vibrate a little under his boots. "You would be more comfortable on the couch." 

Ray turns his head, very carefully, to squint at Fraser standing in the bathroom doorway. He's wearing a Santa hat. Ray's fever must be higher than he thought.

"Hat, Frase?" he mumbles. Fraser's eyebrows go up, and then he looks a little embarrassed, reaches up and pulls off the Santa hat. 

"Oh. Well, we had a group of school children visiting this afternoon to learn about Christmas customs in Canada. I'm afraid Turnbull insisted on the hats, despite their being somewhat against regulation." While he's explaining, Fraser heaves Ray to his feet and guides him over to the couch. "I was rather in a hurry after we saw them off, and I suppose it slipped my mind." 

Ray laughs a little creakily at the idea of Fraser striding through the streets of Chicago, wearing his red serge and the fluffy Santa hat. Fraser grins back at him. 

"Turnbull was most concerned to hear that you were unwell, and graciously shared his grandmother's recipe for chicken noodle soup. I took the liberty of bringing over the ingredients."

"You don't gotta do that," Ray says. "I'm fine." 

"Nonsense," Fraser says. "I have nothing else to do today." 

"Hockey!" Ray tries to shout, and sends himself into a coughing fit. "You are going to that hockey game, Fraser." 

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Ray," Fraser says. He drapes a blanket over Ray, tucking it in, and goes into the kitchen. Ray can hear him opening and shutting the fridge, clinking glasses on the counter. "I'm going to be here, keeping you well hydrated and making sure that your fever doesn't rise to dangerous levels. We can put the game on the television, if you'd like." 

He comes back, carrying Ray's big plastic salad bowl and a tall glass of orange juice. Ray takes a careful slurp, keeping the bowl close just in case. Fraser gives him an approving nod and heads back into the kitchen. Ray can hear him humming to himself as he rustles bags and chops vegetables and does whatever else it is that Turnbull's grandma says you have to do to make chicken noodle soup. 

Ray maybe drifts off for a while because next thing he knows, Fraser's bringing him another glass of juice and the apartment smells amazing.

"We have about half an hour til puck-drop," Fraser says, flipping on the television to the pre-game talking heads. "And the soup should be ready shortly." 

"Thanks, Frase," Ray mumbles, still half asleep. He feels like a little kid, and because it's Fraser, it's not embarrassing or awkward. He just feels warm and safe and--and taken care of. Yeah. Feels good. Really good. 

Ray can't really taste the soup, but it makes his throat feel a little better, at least til he pukes it right back up again, two minutes before puck-drop. He misses most of the first period, dry-heaving in the bathroom, and when he staggers back out again, the Oilers are up by two, and manage to score again while the Hawks are on a power-play. 

Ray makes a gagging sound, and Fraser is halfway off the couch, holding out the clean salad bowl before he realises it was just a comment on the Hawks' skating. It's hard to pay attention when they're sucking so bad, and Ray keeps drifting in and out of sleep. 

"Won't hurt my feelings if you want to head out," he tells Fraser, trying not to yawn. 

"Oh no," Fraser says, "your television has a much better picture than the one at the Consulate, and I'm quite enjoying watching your team lose with such enthusiasm." He's wearing that too-straight face that means he thinks he's being hilarious. 

"Hardy-ha," Ray says, but he falls asleep before he can figure out the rest of his witty comeback. 

FIN


End file.
